<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Jam Session by CommanderBayban</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28306008">Jam Session</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderBayban/pseuds/CommanderBayban'>CommanderBayban</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dick Whittington and His Cat (Folklore)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Rhyming, music references, pantomime</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:01:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>965</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28306008</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderBayban/pseuds/CommanderBayban</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah the Cook is preparing a feast for Dick's inauguration as Lord Mayor when she decides to crank up some tunes. Unfortunately, it doesn't go as planned.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Jam Session</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sarah the Cook was busy toiling away in her new, state of the art scullery. There was much work to be done to prepare for Dick Whittington’s royal inauguration as Lord Mayor. Usually, there was a more...laudable head chef who was put in charge of these sorts of affairs—ten-time award winners, those who have sated the hunger of presidents and prime ministers from Turkey to Chile—you know the sort. But Dick was most adamant from the start: <em>“Sarah MUST prepare my inaugural feast!” </em>And so, despite her credentials being a few odd stints here and there, Sarah was put in charge of dinner and dessert.</p><p>While preparing a lovely fish stew complete with five different species of fish heads, roe, bones, and everything else that makes an actinopterygian tick, she decided to entertain herself with a bit of music. Now, Sarah was a self-proclaimed music aficionado. In her cottage were stacks upon stacks of Gregorian chants; <em>chansons</em>; and lute and flute-oriented gramophone records. But those all belonged to her roommate.</p><p>No, the colourful chef preferred the modern grooves of the day! In her grand, yellow and teal pinafore she slapped down a fat halibut and flounced over to the stereo system, where she flicked the switch and dialed the volume to eleven.</p><p>“Tiffany,” she commanded sweetly, “Play Britney Bit—ahem, <em>Britney Spears</em>.”</p><p>The sensual pop rhythms of Brit-Brit pumped through the castle walls, threatening to yank out each stone masonry piece by piece. Sarah swayed back to her kitchen island and, with her head bobbing to the beat, she returned to chop-chopping away at the gills and guts when the music abruptly switched to Tears for Fears.</p><p>“Now how could that happen?” Sarah did scoff and so she asked Tiff for a Cell that was Soft.</p><p>‘Tainted Love’ played over the speaker with joy, but soon turned to Motley and their nefarious ploy—</p><p>“‘Smoking in the Boy’s Room?!’ What a terrible thought, that stuff will soon kill you and leave you to rot!”</p><p>So Sarah asked for a pop song about Troupers, but received eldritch hants from the dear Alice Cooper.</p><p>With an exasperated sigh and a clear of the throat, the cook remembered the name of a band she did note.</p><p>A command was made for a track by a Rainbow, but then she was met by the shrill shrieks of James Dio.</p><p>And unlike the rest of the songs she did pick, this one kept playing without even a trick.</p><p>None of this made a lick of sense of Sarah. Why was it that every time she wished to shake her groove thing, the music would switch to a headbanger’s paradise? Little did she know that there was a rat hidden in the bowels of the castle. With his Bluetooth device he chortled and squeaked as he remotely controlled the kitchen’s stereo with just the swipe of his finger.</p><p>
  <em>Bang! Flash!</em>
</p><p>The rat appeared before the perturbed chef whose masculine—yet youthful—countenance was now veiled with a mess of wrinkles and a rather unsightly pout. It’s rather unfortunate the flash was not in the pan.</p><p>“King Rat!” Sarah bellowed, with her hands affixed to her waist, “I should’ve known! Only you would like such doom and gloom!”</p><p>“You are wise beyond your years, Sarah,” the rat creeped, his voice dripping with treachery, “Metal is the music of my people…!”</p><p>“I refuse to listen to those grotesque things you call a melody!”</p><p>“And I refuse to watch you dance to children’s music sung by grown adults…”</p><p>With a collective huff, they crossed their arms and scolded at one another like two wrestlers making a scene from opposite sides of the ring. Speaking of rings, the cook—not willing to stand for this any longer—stomped over to the set of bell pulls and requested the presence of her one and only.</p><p>A moment later, Fitzwarren sauntered in and greeted Sarah with a polite smile; she returned the greeting with a tight embrace.</p><p>“Oh, Fitzy! You <em>must</em> help a young damsel in distress!” she mewled.</p><p>Fitzwarren pried her off with a swift, yet forceful, push, “What is it <em>now</em>, Sarah? The last time you begged me for help it was to unclog the drain of your sink!”</p><p>The cook fiddled with the shopkeeper’s tie, “And what a brilliant job you did,” she giggled.</p><p>“It was really quite simple as there was nothing <em>wrong</em> with the drain in the <em>first place!</em>” Fitzwarren flounced his hand, “But now what do you want? I was in the middle of beating Idle Jack in chess!”</p><p>“The Rat King (he narrowed his eyes and waved his long, bony fingers at his audience) here insists on changing <em>my</em> dance classics to horrid thrash hits! Do something about it, won’t you?”</p><p>“There is nothing either of you can do!” the king exclaimed, “Rock and <em>rawwwl</em> will never die!”</p><p>Fitzwarren stroked his bare chin, “Dance classics?” he said with a kick of his brow, “Thrash hits? Why, they’re both insufferable!”</p><p>With a simple command, he began to have fun as what played through the speakers was Duke Ellington. And when that was over he picked up the pace with irregular signatures from Emerson, Lake.</p><p>Sarah and King Rat exchanged grimaces.</p><p>“What is this foolishness you subject my ears to!?” The rat squealed.</p><p>“It sounds like math in music form—and I <em>HATE</em> math!” Sarah spat.</p><p>As the King snuck the halibut carcass into his robe he swooned, “Let us go somewhere where our musical interests will be better appreciated.” And escorted Sarah out of the room with a chivalrous loop-de-loop of their arms. </p><p>“Oh, gladly!” she purred.</p><p>Fitzwarren didn’t notice them leave. With his foot tap-tapping and his fingers snap-snapping, he was fully at the whims of the groove.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>